


Fever Pitch

by evewithanapple



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, dubious medical accuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katherine gets sick. Jack doesn't take it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Pitch

 “You should lie down and rest” Jack says as Katherine grabs a handkerchief to stem the flow of blood from her nose.

She wipes the last few drops of blood from her chin and tosses the handkerchief aside. “I’m fine.”

She’s  _not_ fine, and they both know it. Her head is pounding as though someone was trying to kick it open from the inside, and her skin is prickling beneath her clothes. Even in the warm mid-May weather and the window closed, she’s struggling not to shiver. A cold, most likely; she isn’t coughing yet, but she’s sure it will come in time. Nothing that necessitates wrapping up the day’s work early. They have an article still to finish, letters to draft to Mrs. Belmont and the editor of the  _Observer_ , and packages to deliver to the new settlement house on Orchard Street. Many and more important things than curling up in bed and feeling sorry for herself because her head hurts. She’ll take some Bromo-Selzer before they leave, and the symptoms will be, if not gone, then subdued enough to finish making her rounds.

Right on cue, a coughing fit racks her, harsh enough to make her grip the edge of the table as she tries to gulp in fresh air. Jack moves to open the window, and the gust of warm air makes the next breath slightly easier, though her eyes are still watering when the coughing abates and she straightens her shoulders. She can feel Jack’s eyes on her as she turns back to the paper in front of her, sending the same silent message he’s been trying and failing to get across for the past two hours.

“Katherine-”

“I am  _fine_ ,” she snaps, turning around again. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a good night’s sleep won’t fix, and we can’t afford to get behind-” She tries to head off the rest of the sentence as another coughing fit bubbles up in her throat, but the last word dies in her mouth as she bends over, hand to her mouth, hacking desperately. She sounds awful.

“Fine.” she says wearily, coming back up for air. She tries very hard not to look at Jack, who she knows is fixing her with his best “I’m-worried-and-you’re-pushing-too-hard” face. “I’ll go lie down.  But don’t you  _dare_  leave any of this undone by tonight, Jack. I mean it.” It’s patently unfair and she knows it- Jack’s no more likely to leave work undone than she is- but as the pounding in her head increases and she starts to weave back and forth on her feet, she isn’t feeling very fair.

Jack takes her elbow. “I’ll help”-

She steps backwards, nearly colliding with the doorframe. “You will not.” Ill she may be but Katherine Plumber is capable of walking ten steps from their kitchen to their bedroom. She’s not  _that_  ill yet. Of course, even if she was, she would insist on crawling those ten steps on her own, but that is entirely beside the point. She pushes off from the doorframe and begins to make her painful way down the hall, stopping to draw another deep breath. Her head still hurts, and it feels strange-

From his position at the table, Jack hears the  _thump_  from the hallway. The papers fall to the floor with a faint rustle, but he doesn’t notice- he’s out the door before she’s even finished hitting the floorboards.

 

* * * *

 

The next few hours are a chaotic blur in his mind, not helped at all by the fact that he spent most of them in a panic. He does know that his shouts brought one of the neighbours running, and that they ran and fetched the doctor as soon as they saw him trying to lift Katherine from the floor. The doctor must have been nearby, for he got there in less than fifteen minutes, and was there soon enough that he could help Jack lift his wife into bed.  He tries to send Jack away as he examines her, but Jack refused to budge, and the doctor quickly decides it’s a battle not worth fighting. The diagnosis comes within minutes: typhoid fever.

“All there’s to do now is keep her comfortable and give her quinine,” the doctor says, packing his bag. Jack barely hears him. He glances up. “Has she had it before?”

The words barely penetrate, but he knows it’s important. “Uh-“ He runs his tongue over his teeth. “No- yes, once. When she was a kid.” She’d told him about it- last year? Later than that? He couldn’t remember. But she’d had it, once. Wasn’t that supposed to guard against it happening again? Shouldn’t there be something, anything, to ensure that it doesn’t get worse? Glancing at where she lies on the bed, still unconscious, shivering under two blankets, he doesn’t want to contemplate what  _worse_  might bring.

The doctor nods as if the news is not unexpected. “It happens sometimes.” He stands. “Give her the quinine every two hours, and use cold compresses to bring her fever down.” A pause. “Do you want me to leave some opium, in case the pain gets bad?”

Jack’s spared from answering by a groan from Katherine. He bends to catch whatever it is she’s saying, but she’s already lapsed back into unconsciousness. Still, he knows very well what she would think of relying on opium. “Won’t be necessary.”

The doctor nods. He pauses, as if contemplating saying something further, but thinks better of it and rolls his shoulder, apparently working out a kink. “Send for me if she takes a turn for the worse.”

He can’t think about that. He pulls a chair up beside the bed, and is too lost in contemplation to hear the door close behind him.

 

* * * *

 

A night passes, and a day.

He doesn’t sleep.

She wakes up briefly overnight, long enough for him to help her swallow some water and the quinine the doctor left. Almost as soon as it disappears down her throat, her head falls back against the pillow, and he tugs the blanket back over her. Is she cold? He hadn’t thought to ask her when she was lucid. Her breathing is steady, but raspy, as if her lungs are struggling to suck the air in. Occasionally a fit of coughing will lift her off the bed, jolting her nearly onto the floor, but it doesn’t wake her.

When she begins to mutter and pick at the covers, he thinks she might be waking, but she’s not- it’s only more delirium. Gently- she moans when he touches her, and he doesn’t know if it’s the fever or if she’s in pain- he tucks her hand under the covers. Next she starts scratching at her own shoulder with the other hand; he takes it and holds on, and there’s no noise of protest. It feels thinner than usual, lying limply in his hand. Like there’s not much to hold on to, and what little there is is slipping away.

He talks to her. She can't hear him- or if she can, she doesn't respond- but he talks. He's good at talking. So he tells her about the weather, about what he and the boys used to get up to, about the time David had to drag him home screamingly drunk the night before their wedding- he'd had to keep Jack from showing up under Katherine's window and throwing pebbles, does she know that?- about the pranks they'd pulled in the lodging house, about everything and nothing, so long as it keeps his tongue in motion. As the first night falls, he grows quieter, hoarser, and he tells her about his mother, who's more of a figure than a memory to him now, and his father who he doesn't remember at all, and the Refuge and how they huddled together under a blanket full of holes that was never warm enough and how he would have given it to her if she'd been there; he would have given her everything. 

Another night. Another day.

David arrives the next morning.

Jack hadn’t thought to send for him- hadn’t thought of anything except making sure Katherine had someone by her bedside. He doesn’t know how David found out, but the mystery is solved when he’s followed in by one of the neighbours saying anxiously “I didn’t know what to do, he’s been in here two days-”

David catches sight of him and his eyes soften. “ _Jack_.”

He looks up, then stands, knees creaking in protest. He hadn’t realized how bleary his eyes were until he has to blink once, twice, to realize who’s standing in the doorway. He reaches up to rub a hand across his eyes, but thinks better of it. “Hey Davey.”

David crosses the floor in three purposeful strides, and drops to a crouch next to the bed. “Katherine?” She stirs, but doesn’t wake. “Can you hear me?”

“She’s sleeping,” Jack says tersely. She’s been sleeping for the past twenty-four hours at least, but it’s not as if she doesn’t need it.  David’s probably slowing her recovery down just by trying to wake her. “Thanks for coming, Dave, but you-”

David cuts him off with a gesture, getting to his feet. “I’m not leaving yet.” He glances at the neighbour, who’s still hovering anxiously in the doorway, but his next words are to Jack. “You’re coming outside with me.”

Jack laughs hoarsely. “I don’t think so.”

David glances back to the neighbour, who moves forward to sit in the empty chair. “I’ll watch her for now. Get some fresh air.”

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t need-”                                               

“Yes,” David says firmly, taking him by the elbow, “you do.” He steers him towards the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “We’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Half an hour,” David says, “and not less. You need to go outside.” He eyes him critically. “And wash, and eat. When was the last time you did either?”

Jack doesn’t bother to respond, twisting to look over his shoulder instead. Katherine’s still asleep, still breathing raggedly, but perhaps there’s something-

David steers him out the door.

 

* * * *

 

He takes him to a shaded green area near the apartment. It’s no more than a block away- Jack is already tugging restlessly back towards the building- but it has several trees and a bench to sit on. David pulls him over and sits him down. There’s no one else sitting here- at this time of day they’re all in their offices, waiting for noon- and so there’s no one to eye him worriedly like David is doing. It’s probably just as well. He hasn’t washed or shaved since all this began, and hadn’t the presence of mind to do so before David dragged him outside. The sun feels especially harsh against his eyes, so he rubs a hand over his face, wondering if typhoid is catching. Stupid question, of course it is. Who will take care of her if she hasn’t recovered yet? But then there’s that  _if_ , and that word is ready to lead him down a path he isn’t prepared to walk, that he’s nonetheless been contemplating for the past two days.

David sits next to him on the bench, hands in his pockets, saying nothing. It’s a habit that occasionally unnerves him, more so today than other days. David’s silences are like Katherine’s, after a fashion; it’s usually when he’s trying to impart some kind of message and is waiting for Jack to catch up. Jack hates feeling like he hasn’t caught up. So he shoves a hand through his hair and half-grunts “You should’ve stayed away. It might be catching.”

David looks at him, eyes unreadable. “If it were, you’d be sick by now.” Jack doesn’t have an answer for that, so he just grunts again and leans his back against the bench. “Then why drag me out here?”

“Because,” David says gently, “you look awful, you probably haven’t slept or eaten since she got sick- no don’t lie, your neighbour told me- and the longer you go on like this, the worse for wear you’ll be, and the less good you’ll be to her. And the less good you are to her . . .” He shrugs. “Did you finish that letter to Mrs. Belmont?”

It takes Jack a moment to follow the conversation and realize that David’s changing the subject. It takes yet another moment to remember what he’s talking about. “We- no, we didn’t. We were working on it, but-” But Katherine got sick. It all leads back around to that, the fact that  _Katherine is sick_  and he should be back in that room sitting at her bedside instead of out here chatting with David as if nothing’s wrong. What’s the matter with him?

“Never mind,” David says, before Jack can say as much and run back to the apartment, “I’ll do it.” He stretches both legs out in front of him and lets the silence stretch on. With every minute, Jack can feel the air between them thickening, until he feels like he’s going to choke. He leans forward and rubs both hands against his temples, trying to clear his head. It’s not helping. And David clearly knows it, which is making it that much worse. It's easier to pretend be strong when people pretend to believe it.

“Jack,” David says softly, putting a hand on his back. It’s too much. He can’t handle this, not David’s sympathy, not the fair spring day, not the fact that for the first time in two days he’s alone with his thoughts and now he can’t stop thinking about that horrible  _if_ , that Katherine, who’s been the best thing in his life for over a year could vanish from it for something as simple as a summer fever. And if he allows that, if he lets her slip through his fingers, it sends him reeling back down the years, a dozen memories of all the people he’s failed, the things he couldn’t fight. He’s Jack Kelley, union leader, Katherine Plumber’s husband, but in the face of this he’s as helpless as a blade of grass in a hurricane.

Jack digs his hands into his scalp, hard enough to be painful, and begins to cry. The sobs start muffled, but grow louder as he finds he can’t contain them, and they begin to shake his whole body. David, blessedly, offers nothing in the way of false promises; it’s the one thing above all others that Jack can’t bear. Instead he just rubs slow circles against Jack’s back, murmuring wordless comforts, which is all Jack can handle. It's lucky, he thinks, that David is the one who came to find him. Then he realizes it wasn't luck at all.

 

* * * *

 

David deposits him back at the apartment and thanks the neighbour for looking after Katherine, but he doesn't leave. He settles Jack back down into his chair and goes into the kitchen, returning after a minute with a steaming mug of coffee. Jack drinks it in one go, not even wincing when it scalds his throat. Still, David doesn't leave. He returns to the kitchen, comes back with a chair, and sits down in the far corner of the room, where he can watch Jack and Katherine. After watching Jack drum his fingers against his leg for five minutes, he sighs, gets up, and vanishes into the kitchen, reappearing with the papers Jack and Katherine had been working on earlier.

“Here,” he says, dropping them into Jack’s lap. “You need something to do.” He was right, much as Jack hates to admit it, so he picks the pile up and begins to sift through it. David disappears back through the kitchen door, and soon Jack can smell bacon being turned over on the oven.

Katherine makes another small sound in her sleep, and his head snaps up, but she’s only shifting under the quilts. With his free hand, Jack reaches out to take one of hers’. With his other, he flips through the papers.

Another night.

Another day.

 

* * * *

 

She’s swimming in something dark and deep- no not swimming- there’s no water, and she can breathe, although it feels like her face is wrapped in cotton wool and something’s holding her legs, keeping her from floating. Her father took her to the shore once, when she was small- this isn’t like that at all. Instead of being able to see water spreading out for miles, she can’t see a hand in front of her face, or feel the weight of her clothes or hair. As far as she can tell, she might well be floating naked, except she can’t feel her skin either. _Is_ something holding her legs? Something’s holding her _down_ , but she can’t feel legs or feet. She thinks there was pain, at some point, pain and cold, but she can’t feel it now. She just feels sleepy, content to hold still and drift. Breath is still difficult, but if she stopped trying-

If she stopped trying, what?

If she stopped trying, she’d stop breathing. Simple but- not, because there’s a very important reason for her to keep doing it. She can’t remember why. But she has to keep trying. She sucks another breath, which causes a stabbing pain- she’s not sure how she feels it, with no body, but it’s there. The sleepy contentment begins to abate, replaced for the first time with anger. Who’s trying to stop her from breathing? She’s awake enough- still surrounded by darkness, but awake- to be irritated at the resistance. Another breath. Another stab. The stabbing pain clears her head enough to remind her- if she stopped breathing, she’d die. Is she dead now? Is that why breathing hurts? But she wouldn’t be breathing if she was dead. Another breath, then. Another.

If she’s alive, she has to be awake. But if she’s awake, why the darkness? Are her eyes closed? She can’t feel her eyes. So if she’s alive and not awake, she must be asleep, so she has to wake up. The train of logic is smooth, even as something inside her recognizes the absurdity of it. There’s still no sign of a body, or a direction within the darkness that she can follow. That means she has to do this with her mind.

_Wake up._

Nothing.

_Come on, Katherine. Wake up._

There’s a faint flicker of light above her. Encouraged, she starts to make her way towards it. As she does so, she can feel sensation slowly seeping in, the vague nothingness being replaced with awareness of her arms and legs. They hurt. She pushes forward anyway.

_Wake up._

The pain is getting stronger- in her head, and in her chest. Her throat feels scraped raw, and her stomach aches. But the light is getting brighter. She takes another deep breath and _kicks_. She's almost there, she can feel it.

She opens her eyes.

For a moment, the light is blinding; she had to blink several times to adjust her vision, though her eyelids feel as though they're weighed down with sand. As her vision clears, she can see her bedroom- her and Jack's. Her husband is slumped in a chair next to the bed, chin on his chest, a handful of papers dangling from hs hand. She twists her head. On the other side of the room, David is in a chair in the corner, nursing a mug of something. She thinks she can smell coffee, but can't tell if it's from the mug or the kitchen.Her stomach growls.

"Jack," she says softly.

Neither of them respond. Her voice is barely above a whisper. She lifts her head off the pillow, and regrets it as a fresh wave of pain stabs behind her eyes. She reaches out with one hand to touch her husband's knee. "Jack?"

His head snaps up, eyes unfocused, and for a moment it's as if he doesn't see her. Then his eyes lock on hers, and something- she can't name the expression, but it's as though someone opened a window and let the sun hit him directly in the face. He makes a strangled noise, half-laugh half-sob, and launches himself off the chair and onto the bed, gathering her up in his arms and burying his face in her hair with another muffled sound. Across the room, David rises from his chair, setting the mug on the floor- she smiles against Jack's shoulder; of course he'd set it down rather than dropping it and making a mess on the floor- and stands, hands in pockets, smiling gently at her. She smiles over Jack's shoulder, patting his back gently. "I'm all right," she says softly. As she says it, she realizes that she doesn't realize how long she was asleep. She remembers standing at the table, agreeing to lie down, and then- nothing. But judging by Jack's reaction, it was longer than a few hours. He's shaking in her arms, like he was the one who was sick. She suspects he'd deal with that much better.

At last, she draws back. "My throat-"

"I'll get you something to drink," David says, and crosses the room to the door. He gives her a small nod before he leaves, and she nods back. An acknowledgement, without words, of what's happened in her absence. Knowing her boys, she can tell.

Her shoulder, where Jack had hidden his face, is damp, and not just with sweat. She draws his face between her hands, and touches her forehead to his. "I'm all right," she says again, softly. It's what he needs to hear, she knows. He needs to know he didn't fail her, that she'll be safe. A old, old fear, for him, one she's tried to talk him out of, but knows she never will. Some things cut too deep, and too old to take away. But she's safe now, and he's safe, and she knows the rest can come in time.

Jack leans against her, one thumb stroking her temple, where the headache had been throbbing a moment ago. It seems to have dissipated, but she's not entirely sure.

"Yeah," he says, "you're all right."

**Author's Note:**

> Man, MANY thanks to everyone on tumblr who cheerlead me through the many ups and downs of writing this.
> 
> Joseph Pulitzer's real-life daughter, Lucille, died of typhoid fever in 1898; this fic sprung from the idea of applying that story to Katherine (minus the, er, death.) I did NOT expect it to get this big (three thousand words, wot?) but . . . there you go.


End file.
